


Fever Dream

by orphan_account



Series: good old fashioned killing machine [2]
Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, POV First Person, Shameless Smut, Smut, of sorts, spoilers for 3.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You've been bad, Killer.”I ache. He's right.“But you're lucky, Nick. I'm here to pound the Devil out of you.”





	Fever Dream

Suddenly, Troy is in the box with me, behind me, pressing his sweaty body against mine. Can't he feel I'm already too hot?

My head starts swimming. I start to sway. I fall, no, I don't fall down. He catches me. His strong arms wrap around my waste, hold me up. His touch is scorching.

“You've been bad, Killer.”

I ache.

He's right.

“But you're lucky, Nick. I'm here to pound the Devil out of you.”

I wonder, is that a threat – or a promise?

“..amen...” My hoarse voice is barely a whisper.

He starts to caress my neck, peppering it with soft kisses. Then he bites down - hard.

I moan. The sensation shoots straight to my dick, and despite my dire circumstances, it gives an interested twitch.

Instinctively I bow my neck even further, and sure am rewarded by him biting and sucking and leaving mark upon mark on my delicate skin.  
Effectively distracting me from his hands, which have already opened my pants and are pushing them down just as I become aware of his doings.

He takes my dick into his right and gives it a few strokes, not firm enough and much to slow for my liking. So I close my own hand around his, setting a faster rhythm and a grip I can work with, at the same time trying to push my ass on his still cloth-covered dick that's straining the fabric. Hard and big, and just for me.

“You're … overdressed.” I manage to get out. 

He obliges me by pulling his zipper down and taking his cock out, rubbing it against my ass and slipping it into my crack, where it nudges my already sensitive balls. This won't take long for me.

“Put it in. Please!” I whine.

“You seem to think this is a treat when this is punishment, poet.”

Troy takes his hand from my dick, I'm far to weak to fight it, and he instead grabs my hips, rubbing his cock through my sweaty crack, nudging my hungry hole just so, but never slipping in, never giving me what I really want, while keeping me constantly on the brink of release.  
I'm rubbing my dick furiously, painfully aware that he wont give me what I want because... not now, not yet.

His grip on my hips becomes almost painful, his thrusts erratic as he ruts once, twice against me, spills his seed on my ass, my balls, my clenching hole. His orgasm triggers my own, I come dry, far to thirsty and drained for my body to waste precious fluid.  
For a moment everything goes black in front of my eyes, I sway, and my body connects with the painfully hot steel door, jostling me awake again.

I'm alone.

I look down, willing my body to at least pull my pants up, but I discover I'm still fully dressed. I've hallucinated. Again. But I came. There's this sweet ache in my balls that I only get after a good wank. I've come while deliriously wishing Troy would fuck me.  
I wait for the shame to come, but it doesn't, which leaves me with a question: Is he the disease or the cure?


End file.
